


one safe place in the world

by serpentheir



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Archie Andrews is a Good Friend, Canonical Child Abuse, Dyslexic Archie Andrews, First Kiss, Found Families, Gen, Good Parent Fred Andrews, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Fred Andrews/FP Jones II, Protective Siblings, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21923398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serpentheir/pseuds/serpentheir
Summary: "When my dad was still drinking, my mom would call your dad for help and he'd go down to the bar and pick him up and take him back home and lay him down on the couch. He'd stay to talk to me, to ask if I'd had dinner. He just wanted to know if I was hungry."Or, five times Fred Andrews rescued Jughead Jones and one time he couldn't.
Relationships: Archie Andrews & Jughead Jones, Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones, FP Jones II & Jughead Jones, Fred Andrews & FP Jones II, Fred Andrews & Jughead Jones, Fred Andrews/FP Jones II, but not in a way that makes jarchie weird)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 182





	1. indications that there’s something wrong

**Author's Note:**

> [spoilers for riverdale 4x01]  
> dedicated to luke perry, whose kindness and love will be missed by everyone that knew him.  
> this is my attempt at a memorial for fred andrews. he was always such a loving, caring, reliable presence while the other riverdale parents were off doing god knows what. i want to try to memorialize how important he was as a grounding force in the story, as well as the invaluable presence luke himself brought to the show.  
> this fic is turning out to be the end product of me repeatedly going "I JUST THOUGHT OF SOMETHING REALLY SAD", so you're welcome and i'm sorry in advance.  
> fic title is from road music by richard siken, chapter title is from dance music by the mountain goats.  
> 

The first time it happened, Jughead was five. Six, maybe. Young enough not to remember much except just the sound of Mr. Andrews’ truck pulling in, the front door opening and shutting. Two voices whispering frantically. His father slumped on the couch, Mr. Andrews kneeling next to it. 

This was back when they were still living on Elm Street, where they’d still had trees in their yard and food on the table. Fred told him about that night once, years later. He remembered it better than Jughead did, but Jughead could tell he hated reliving it. 

_Your dad was out drinking, you know, and...the owner of the bar called me, I guess. Nice guy, he’d gone to school with us. I don’t remember his name anymore, but he knew FP -- your dad -- and I, knew we’d been close. Sounds like your dad got a little aggressive with some of the other people in the bar, and the owner wanted me to come pick him up. Said your dad told him to call me, so I drove over and picked him up. He was pretty out of it, but he let me take him home. I brought him in, helped him lay down on the couch, the normal stuff. Your mom was there...she wasn’t happy with him, to say the least, and they got to arguing, not that it was a fair fight with your dad in that condition. You know how they were. You were there, in the kitchen, I think. You were just a little kid. It must’ve been one in the morning, on a school night too. By the looks of it, your folks weren’t gonna be done for a while, so I asked if you wanted to have a sleepover with Archie. Told you to grab your backpack for school the next day, your pajamas and toothbrush and all that stuff, and you came in I don’t think I’d ever seen Archie so happy. Getting to stay up late and have a sleepover on a school night, it was exciting, you know? Anyways, I had a talk with your parents after you got back home from school the next day. They weren’t exactly glad I’d let you break the rules, your mom was pretty against the whole thing. Family sticking together and all that. But I think your dad understood. He hadn’t wanted you to see any of that._

...

As Fred went to park the truck in his own driveway, Jughead ran into the backyard, tossed his backpack over the fence, and hopped the wooden fence into the Andrews’ yard. Usually his parents would yell at him for it, because fences were expensive and so were new pairs of jeans when he’d ripped holes in them from climbing trees and falling off Archie’s skateboard, but that night they didn’t see him clamber over the fence, landing hard in the Andrews’ rosebush. When he walked in through the side door, he thought Archie was going to throw up from laughing so hard. 

“Dude, you should’ve seen yourself, you _ate it!_ You fell on your butt!”

“No I didn’t! Plus I climbed it faster than you anyways, and you’re not even allowed to climb it anymore!”

“ _Dad!_ ” 

As always, Fred came trudging in, and settled the argument by saying it was a special occasion and neither of them were allowed to hop the fence again. He helped pick the thorns out of Jughead’s hoodie and sent them both to bed, even though he knew they’d be up talking for at least another hour.

...

Jughead could tell there were gaps in the story. There was so much Fred didn’t say, so much he couldn’t say. Still, somehow, Jughead knew what had happened, the same way you know it rained when the ground is wet, even if you didn't see the rain fall. He could tell Fred was skipping over some parts, leaving out everything that happened after his mom started shouting at his dad, but Jughead remembered some of the rest. He could still hear his mom shouting, crying, “we’re _family_ , we’re his _parents_ , don’t forget that” -- whether directed at FP, or Fred, or the whole world, he couldn’t tell. 

His dad hadn’t said anything. He didn’t need to. 

After all, FP had heard that story before. He knew the escape route from the Jones trailer to the Andrews’ house well, he’d run from one to the other plenty of times himself. Hopped the same fence, before the night when it’d snapped under his weight and his dad gave him hell for breaking it. 

Same story, new generation. All that had changed was the color of the truck. The Andrews, as far as he could tell, were destined to save the Joneses in every lifetime.

Still, sometimes, he tried to get Fred to fill in the gaps.

“I remember hearing you and my dad talking about something when you brought him home. Before my mom came in.”

...

Jughead had been in the kitchen. He couldn’t sleep, so he’d sat at the kitchen table, playing with his football figurines and waiting for his dad to come home. He’d never understood sports, and had no idea how football worked, but he did know one story, and he never got sick of reenacting it. 

It was always the _big game_ : the Bulldogs were down six points, two minutes left on the clock, and things were looking bad, but the player that looked most like his dad always saved the day, running the ball into the Baxter High endzone at the last second. 

When he told Jughead the first time, he said _that’s called a Hail Mary,_ , who had thought he was talking about Archie’s mom, and didn't question it. 

He whisper-cheered, the stadium erupting with applause for the underdog who’d finally made it big. His cheers were interrupted by the front door opening slowly, the ebb and flow of two hushed voices trying not to wake him or his mom. He couldn’t make out any of what they were saying except for _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ , and _it’s okay_. 

...

“What were you talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t remember, kiddo. It was a long time ago. It was probably nothing.”

Jughead knew not to pry.

...

That night was the first time he remembered seeing Fred’s old truck sitting in their driveway, its peeling paint glowing green under the trailer's fluorescent porch light. It might as well have been a construction-equipment-towing ferryboat, bringing his dad back from the edge when he couldn’t do it himself. Jughead eventually came to know the sound of its motor pulling in. Somewhere along the line, he’d started looking forward to it, knowing the puttering and spitting of the engine meant _dad’s home_. He wasn’t always sure who he meant.


	2. good reasons to freeze to death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas fred is a good dad and fp has issues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do i care too much about this show? yes. do i know it's bad? yes. do i overanalyze the characters more than the writers themselves? probably!  
> i started off the year writing riverdale fics and im ending it writing riverdale fics. i will never escape  
> i waited a few days to post this since i figured some people would actually have holiday plans and wouldn't have time to read fics (unlike me). so, now that you're done celebrating, let's get emotional!  
> chapter title is from broom people by the mountain goats.

The second time it happened, Archie was with him. FP had promised to take them to see the trains at the Riverdale mall for Christmas.

Every year, the mall set up a huge replica model of Riverdale that had motorized toy trains running through the trees, around the buildings, and past the water tower. Jughead didn’t like going to see the trains as much as Archie did, but his dad never left the trailer except to go to the bar, so when he’d offered to take Jughead and Archie out to “feel the holiday spirit”, Jughead couldn’t care less where they were going as long as it meant he got to go somewhere with his dad.

...

In the mall, Archie, always hyper, ran laps around the display with Jughead following faithfully behind him. There were buttons along the edge of the display, kid-height, that Archie and Jughead could press to make things move, like raising the tiny bridge over Sweetwater River and changing the color of the traffic light. Jughead watched Archie as he pressed every button in sight. Jughead wasn’t as interested in figuring out how all the parts worked - sure, the model was cool; he liked looking at the buildings' tiny details, but it felt pointless to move the cars up and down Main Street when they just did that on their own in the real world. Besides, he’d started getting the sense that trying to figure out how the world worked, trying to _change_ things, never ended up the way he wanted it to.

FP had tapped Jughead on the shoulder and told him he was going to the store next door to get something - with a conspiratorial smile and wink that suggested maybe it was a Christmas present, a secret - and that he’d be right back. Jughead turned and watched him leave, kept watching as he crossed the street to the liquor store, walking in as if he’d been pulled by a force Jughead couldn’t understand. Archie hadn’t even noticed that FP was gone; he was completely engrossed in the buttons and levers and sounds, tugging on Jughead’s sleeve, saying _Jug, c’mon, look what this one does! It makes the ice skater spin around! It makes the hot air balloon take off!_

It seemed like Archie would never exhaust himself, but he finally did. Jughead followed him over to one of the benches, and sat next to him silently until Archie finally looked around and realized that FP was gone.

“Jug, where’d your dad go?”

“He said he was going next door a little while ago. I don’t know where he went.”

“Huh.” 

Archie, always the adventurer, suggested that they go and look for FP. Jughead wasn’t nearly as optimistic: he knew where his dad had gone, after all, or at least which path he’d started down. But he let Archie lead him into the candy shop next door anyways, and watched as he asked the storekeeper, in his Adult Voice:

“Excuse me, ma’am? Did you see a man walk in here?”

The storekeeper smiled down at them. “Can you be a little more specific, honey?”

“Um...he’s like this tall-” Archie stuck his hand straight up in the air, jumping to indicate where he thought six feet might be, “and he has...brown hair, and a beard, and - Jug, what was he wearing?”

“Blue shirt,” Jughead mumbled. Jughead wasn’t as brave as Archie, and not nearly as willing to talk to strangers. Besides, he knew she wouldn't have any idea where his dad was.

The storekeeper shook her head, making her earrings jingle. “Sorry, kiddo, I haven’t seen him. Are you looking for your dad?”

“His dad.” Archie pointed to Jughead, who shuffled to hide behind him.

“Okay...well, I hope you find him, and if not, come back here and you can use our phone, okay?”

“Okay. Thanks.” Archie suddenly raised his eyebrows and stuck his hand into his pocket, pulling out a thick silver flip phone. “I have my own phone, though, but thank you anyways!” Jughead remembered when Fred had given the phone to Archie, telling him, _“Only use this in an emergency. And I mean a real emergency, not “emergency” calling Jughead to tell him you did an ollie. Okay?”_

“Thank you.” Jughead mumbled. He followed Archie out of the store.

Outside, in the middle of the mall, Archie put his hand over his eyes like an explorer gazing off at a far-off shore, and turned in a circle slowly. He scrunched up his face, his eyebrows knitted in the same way Fred’s did when he was trying to read something far away or recall a name of an old acquaintance.

“I don’t see him.”

“I know. Can you call your dad?” Jughead was ashamed, ashamed that his dad had forgotten about them the _one_ time he’d promised to look after them, ashamed that he was, yet again, having to ask Mr. Andrews to bail him out, but most of all, ashamed by how determinedArchie was to help him.

“Oh yeah. Okay.” Archie said his phone number out loud as he punched the numbers into the keypad. He knew the number by heart, but reading it out loud helped him tell the numbers apart. Jughead sat next to Archie in math class, and he’d heard him do the same thing when they were working on their times tables, until one time their teacher had overheard him whispering, thought he was cheating, and threatened to send him to the principal's office if he didn't keep his eyes on his own paper. 

Jughead could barely hear the tinny voice through the phone’s speaker, but he could tell Fred was worried. Archie hung up after a few seconds.

“He’s coming. He said he’ll be here in two minutes and to wait outside the food court.”

“Okay.”

They made their way over to the pickup point, Jughead’s gaze locked on the floor.

Fred kept his word, like always. The boys watched his truck pull up outside after a few minutes. Jughead kept looking at his shoes, not wanting to meet Fred’s eyes, but he made sure to thank him for picking them up. Archie shouted “Shotgun!” and jumped into the front seat, grabbing the side of the door to help pull himself up. Technically, he wasn’t old enough to sit in the front yet; neither of them were, but sometimes Fred let him do it when his mom wasn’t around. Jughead waited for a second before Fred asked:

“Jug, do you want to sit in the front too?”

“Am I allowed?”

“Sure, if you want to. Just this time, though. And don’t tell your folks.”

Archie stuck out his hand and Jughead grabbed it, letting Archie pull him up. They could both sort of fit in the seat if they scooted close together. 

“Put the seat belt on, okay? It’s especially important if you’re sitting in the front. Just, uh, put it over both of you and buckle it like normal. There you go.”

They drove off. Even if Jughead wasn’t normally allowed to ride in the front, Fred said it was safe, so he knew it was okay. From where he was squished between the door and Archie’s side, he could feel Archie bouncing his leg.

“Jug, did you see where your dad went when he left?”

“Yeah, he...went across the street.” Fred was familiar with the town's layout; he knew what that meant.

“Okay. I’m gonna drop you two off at home, okay? I’ll go out and get him. I’m pretty sure I know where he might’ve gone.”

By _home_ , Fred meant the Andrews’ house. He didn’t want Jughead hanging out in his house alone, especially not when FP got home, and Jughead was quietly grateful. Archie was nearly bouncing off the walls with excitement when they got inside. 

“No parents! We can do whatever we want!”

“No parents,” Jughead repeated, less excited. Archie was better than him at coming up with things to do, better at having fun. He always had been. 

...

They sat cross-legged next to each other in the treehouse, looking at their backyards through the door and waiting for Fred to get home.

Archie tapped him on the shoulder. Jughead turned around to look at him, then turned on his hearing aid.

“Hey, Jug,” Archie said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Where do you think your dad went?”

“Oh. I dunno. I saw him go into the store across the street. The...alcohol store.”

“Oh,” Archie said, sounding unsure. 

“Yeah. It’s okay, he does that sometimes. He just...gets confused and doesn’t remember things, or doesn’t remember to come back home. He always comes back eventually, though.”

“Okay.”

“Your dad drinks...like beer and stuff, right?” Jughead asked, curious how other families worked, if they were different, desperate to know why his dad was the way he was.

“Yeah, beer...ew. It’s gross.” Archie made a face.

"But he doesn’t...get confused and stuff, does he? He always comes home, right? He doesn’t get angry sometimes and yell at you?”

Archie thought for a second. 

“No, he only yelled at me once ‘cause I almost rode my bike into the street when I was still learning. He said he only yelled ‘cause he got scared. And...he always comes home. He has to.”

“He has to,” Jughead repeated, wondering why his dad didn’t. Wondering if maybe it was because he didn’t want to.

A minute later, Archie added: “Do you think our dads were friends when they were little? Like us?”

Jughead thought about it. He knew they’d been friends, for sure. He knew about the Fredheads and the football games and them bickering over girls. But sometimes, when his dad talked about Fred and their high school days, he got the same look in his eye that he did when he told Jughead about his and his mom’s wedding day. Like it was the happiest time of his life. Sometimes his dad looked at Fred the same way he looked at Jughead’s mom, but he didn’t know what to call that.

“Yeah. Best friends, I think. I think they still are.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow look at me actually writing over 1500 words for one chapter! unheard of!  
> as always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated. they help me keep this thing going!


	3. hang on past the last exit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jughead wants some semblance of home and stability for him and jellybean, but their family keeps falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really wanted to publish this before midnight to keep it at exactly 1 week between chapters but it took too long. my body is your communion  
> this chapter is pretty headcanon-heavy/divergent from the show's canon because protective older sibling jughead is extremely important to me, and i wanted to give jb more characterization than she got in the show (while still keeping the fic within jughead's pov)  
> chapter title is from no children by the mountain goats.

The third time it happened, he was with Jellybean. They were huddled together in her tiny twin bed, the one with the blanket hung over the bedposts ‘cause she’d always wanted a canopy bed but they could never afford them. It had become sort of a ritual for them: Jughead would sneak into her room at the first sound of their parents fighting, and he’d read to her or watch cartoons with her on the family’s shared brick of a laptop. He did everything he could to drown out the yelling and crying, but some nights, it was especially bad and there was no point in trying. Some nights, they’d hear objects hitting the wall and bottles smashing as FP and Gladys threw whatever was in reach. Sometimes, Jughead wondered if his parents forgot that he and Jellybean existed. 

He’d figured out how to open the first-floor window and prop open the screen enough to squeeze through it, and some nights, he and Jellybean would sneak out. He always crawled through first, landing heavily on his feet, and stood underneath the window to catch JB as she crawled through. They never really had a destination; it was less about _going somewhere_ and more about _getting out_. 

...

Jughead had watched his mom look over the bills that day. He didn’t know exactly what the numbers meant, but he was used to that look on his mom’s face that meant _we can’t keep this up much longer_ . He knew they were on their last legs. With his dad out of a job -- and not sober enough to keep one -- and his mom doing the best she could without a diploma or GED, they were losing money fast. He wished his dad would just _try_. His mom had tried to explain it before, that he was sick, that he needed to get better, but it had been so long since him or JB felt like they had a dad. They were down to eating boxed mac and cheese or beans and rice for most dinners, and Jughead couldn’t remember the last time they’d had vegetables. 

That morning, he’d seen his mom cry. She didn’t want him to see -- probably thought he couldn’t tell -- but he recognized the look in her eyes, glassy and red and unfocused as she stared at the papers strewn over the table. 

That night, the fighting got bad. He and Jellybean were watching Gravity Falls, one of her favorite shows, but no matter how loud he turned up the volume, it was obvious what was going on outside. JB was strong -- stronger than a nine-year-old should have to know how to be -- and she mostly held up okay, but that night, her hands were balled up into fists, pulling the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her hands, and she was shaking.

“Jelly, do you want to go hang out with Archie?”

She looked up at him, surprised and red-eyed.

“Right now? Did he say it’s okay?”

Jughead didn’t have a phone to call Archie, but he knew the Andrews’ door was pretty much always open to them.

“Yeah. He’s gonna be excited to see you. Maybe you can show him the guitar riff you’ve been working on.”

Jellybean had gotten permission to use the elementary school’s music room: even though only the fifth graders were allowed to be in the orchestra, the exploratory music teacher thought she’d showed “extraordinary promise”, and so, three days a week, Jughead walked her to school an hour early to play whatever instrument she wanted to learn at the time. Guitar had been her favorite recently. Jughead didn’t have the calling for music that JB and Archie seemed to, he wasn’t coordinated enough to do much more than type away on his laptop. Still, he was more than content to watch them practice, mesmerized by the way Archie’s fingers flew over the strings, holding them down in the exact right places to make them buzz at the right frequency. He didn’t really _get_ the whole music thing, other than what he listened to on his iPod, but sometimes, when he watched Archie, he thought he might understand.

...

Sure enough, when Fred opened the door, he did look happy to see them, if a little worried.

“Archie’s in his room upstairs, you guys wanna go on up?”

Jellybean darted up the stairs, worn-out shoes slapping against the wooden stairs. Jughead winced, painfully aware that the Andrews always took their shoes off at the door. 

There were so many rules he’d grown up without knowing. He got a glimpse of other families’ lives when he went over to Archie’s or Betty’s -- their houses always seemed a little cleaner, a little brighter, the rooms a little more open, even though all their houses had the same floor plan. Sometimes the Coopers even had a _bowl_ of _fruit_ on the kitchen table. 

It wasn’t hard to tell where the line between his and Archie’s stuff was, at least not to him. It might’ve been a subtle difference, but his belongings were always a little rougher around the edges. His backpack had a hole in it, and his laptop poked out of the corner. The boots he’d been slowly wearing down for a year were scuffed and dented; they were pretty much _only_ scuffs and dents at this point, and Archie seemed to be getting new sneakers all the time, for whatever new sport he was playing this season. 

...

One time, he and Archie had been getting ready for homecoming together, and they were both standing in the Andrews’ bathroom together, looking in the mirror, Jughead adjusting his hat and Archie trying to flatten down the cowlick at the back of his head. For a moment, he could see those differences showing up in their faces too. He wouldn’t have known how to describe it to anyone, but Archie was all smooth lines and high contrast, bright colors, his hair a shock of red and his eyebrows unusually dark. It was like he’d been made to be looked at, like a sculpture, or a painting. Jughead looked beaten up and worn out, even then. He was too fine-lined and spotty, and his hair was just boring, regular brown. If Archie was an oil painting, Jughead was an old, faded watercolor. Or a used paper towel. 

...

They spent the night talking and playing video games, with Archie and Jughead taking turns on the second controller. Jellybean kicked their asses every time. Archie had never seen Jughead as animated as he was when losing a video game; apparently he had the Mario Kart equivalent of road rage, and nearly threw the controller across the room when he came in 12th place for the fourth time in a row. Jellybean had agreed to let Archie braid her hair, and watched Jughead storm out of the room from where she was perched on the edge of Archie’s bed as he wound hair ties around the braids. After almost half an hour of his best attempts, she was left with two somewhat uneven pigtails. 

“Voila!”

“Thanks, Arch!”

As Jughead walked back in, Jellybean turned to look at him, beaming. 

“Look what Archie did! Now my hair doesn’t get in my face when I play games!”

“Looks nice, Jelly.” He smiled at Archie, who smiled back, looking quietly proud of himself.

That night, Archie let Jellybean sleep in his bed, and he and Jughead shared the air mattress on the floor, like they’d done on camping trips when they were little. Archie tossed Jughead an extra blanket, knowing he’d “accidentally” steal all of them if they shared. 

Early the next morning, they both woke with a start when Archie rolled off the side of the mattress and landed on the floor, letting out a quiet “oof”. Jughead propped himself up on his elbows to peer over at Archie, sprawled dramatically on the floor.

“Are you dead?” he whispered.

“Yes,” Archie groaned.

“Okay. You wanna make pancakes?” Jughead grabbed his hat off the floor and stood up, extending a hand to Archie and pulling him up. 

The Andrews always made pancakes on Saturday mornings; it was their tradition. More often than not, Jughead was there to help make them, but mostly to eat. The closest his family had ever gotten to tradition was ordering Chinese takeout on weekends when his dad was out and his mom was too tired to cook. They always ordered from the same cheap place, and ate with plastic utensils in front of the TV. Usually, they’d turn on _Jeopardy_ and Jughead would try to call out the answers before the contestants could. 

He and Archie and Jellybean made pancakes together and ate them together, and for a while, Jughead could pretend they were his family. A real family, the four of them against the world. 

Then he had to go home.

...

When Jughead and Jellybean walked through the door, the trailer was silent, the air stale and empty. They had no idea where their parents were. The car wasn’t in the driveway, and the kitchen counter, where their mom’s purse and keys usually sat, was bare. Without any idea of what had happened or whether anything was actually wrong, Jughead felt a cold, scratchy sense of change start to set in. 

Jughead assumed the role of parent easily; being the older sibling, especially in _his_ family, meant that he was fiercely protective of Jellybean. He did everything he could to keep her from feeling the untethered loneliness that ate away at his sense of _routine_ and _family_ and _love_ every time his dad forgot to come home. 

Usually, they cleaned on Sundays, so once he dropped his backpack in his room, they did their chores together like everything was normal. As if a clean bathroom and swept floors would bring their parents back home. For the rest of the afternoon, he tried desperately to come up with things for the two of them to do that didn't involve worrying about where their parents were. Jughead could tell Jellybean was trying to act brave; she'd inherited the same carefully nonchalant look that he put on when he didn’t want other people to know he was scared or anxious. 

By the time it started getting dark, their parents were still gone, and Jughead reluctantly walked to the Andrews’ house alone help, yet again. 

Usually, Fred was the only adult Jughead could talk to about his problems without being treated like a kicked puppy. He cared, and he was always around, and he talked to Jughead like an adult. Still, sometimes, Jughead saw through it, saw the concern Fred was carrying just under the surface. When he showed up at the Andrews’ door again and told Fred that FP was missing _again_ , he caught a flicker of pity cross Fred’s face and he suddenly felt sick.

“I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to do.” Jughead shifted uncomfortably, adjusting his backpack, too aware that he’d packed enough to make it look like he was moving in.

“Jug, you don’t have to apologize. Come in. You and Jellybean are family, anyways. You’re welcome here whenever you want.”

“Okay. Thank you.” He sounded like he was trying to disappear into himself, like if he was quiet enough, he wouldn’t be there at all, wouldn’t have to bother them.

“Anytime, kid.” Fred opened the door and gestured to the hallway to welcome him in. Jughead shuffled in past him, dropping his backpack at the bottom of the stairs. 

“Jellybean’s still at home, could -- could we go get her?” Jughead asked as Fred shut the door behind them.

“Sure, we can take the truck. I’ll drop you both off here afterwards and go look for your dad.”

...

On the way back from the trailer, Fred asked, “Did you eat dinner?” 

Jughead stayed quiet, not wanting to ask anything else of him, not wanting to wring the Andrews dry of _more_ : more time, more money, more pity. 

Jellybean wasn’t as anxious.

“Nope, our parents were gone all afternoon. Do you have mac and cheese?”

Fred laughed. “Yeah, I think we have a box or two. You know how to make it?”

“Jug does, he’ll make it for me.”

Jughead nodded. “Sure. Thank you, Mr. Andrews.”

...

It was around that time that Fred started asking Jughead every time he saw him if he’d eaten breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. And it was around that time that Jughead started saying, “I’m always hungry.” He was eating meals with the Andrews more and more and he couldn’t tell whether it was for the food or for the company, couldn’t tell when _I’m hungry_ had started meaning _I’m lonely_.

The next morning, Fred dropped him and Jellybean off at the trailer. Fred had brought FP home the night before, as usual, but the driveway was still empty. Gladys was nowhere to be seen, and most of her clothes were missing, along with her toothbrush, shampoo, and conditioner. Jughead couldn’t blame his mom for leaving -- hell, if he’d had a choice, he would’ve left a long time ago. But he didn’t know how to tell Jellybean that their mom was gone, that he didn’t know when she would be back, or if she’d be back at all. He didn’t have a phone number or address to reach her to ask the one question that kept haunting him: _why didn’t you take us with you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you so much for reading and continuing to support this fic! i appreciate comments/kudos a whole lot if you enjoyed it.  
> this one is a whole 2200 words, i'm really upping my game! (jk it's still super short but i'm getting there)


	4. the last best thing i got going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jughead tries to disappear but archie and fred aren't having any of that bullshit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall i wrote 2.6k for one chapter im off the CHAIN  
> title is from dance music by the mountain goats.

Jughead was sixteen and the word _family_ didn't feel right anymore. Not when he thought about his parents. 

His mom had whisked Jellybean off to Toledo with her "for a while”. He was old enough to know that “a while” was like when his parents said “we’ll see”. It meant _you’re not gonna like the answer, so let’s pretend for now that it might be okay_. 

FP was a wreck, rarely sober enough to string two words together, and eventually Jughead got so sick of the ups and downs that he moved out of the trailer started living on his own. 

Sometimes, when he thought about them, he tried calling them his _relatives_ in his head; he thought it sounded less warm and fuzzy, didn’t carry all the connotations of love and connection and unity that _family_ did. 

It didn’t even feel right when he thought about the Andrews. Over the summer, he and Archie had drifted apart: Archie had gradually stopped telling him about how his music was going or even how boring it was to haul cement, and before Jughead realized what was happening, they were going days without talking for the first time in years. When Archie cancelled their road trip last-minute, he got the message. He stopped trying to bother him, and after that, they didn’t talk for weeks. He tried not to think about Archie. He just couldn’t wrap his head around the idea of not being best friends with him anymore. 

He felt like he'd tied a boat to the dock and looked away for a second, only to turn around and realize it had already drifted out of reach. 

...

He'd started writing a novel in the wake of Archie's disappearance; it gave him something to do during the long, bleak stretches of time between school and sleep. His dad always said he'd had an overactive imagination. Mostly, it made him better at catastrophizing, but he liked to think it made him a better writer, too. He tried to stay impartial when he wrote about the town, but sometimes he caught himself going off on a tangent about Riverdale’s golden boy, Mr. Popular Football God, the boy next door with a smile like the sun. Those, he hid, either in the notebook shoved at the bottom of his backpack or in an inconspicuously named folder inside several other folders on his laptop. Making up metaphors about his feelings felt easier than trying to name them. 

He didn't write himself into the novel. It wasn't about him. 

He drifted like a ghost between the few places that still felt safe. It was pretty much the same every day: school, then wandering around town until he got bored, then Pop's, then the drive-in. 

He was perpetually grateful to Pop Tate for keeping the diner open 24 hours a day. He never told Jughead to scram, and never hassled him on the days that he couldn't rustle up the change for a cup of coffee. They had a silent agreement. Jughead practically lived in the back booth; it was a home away from home, where he could plug in his laptop and watch everyone coming in and out of the diner without being noticed by any of them. His novel wasn’t a fantasy, but still, he wanted to figure out how to write Pop into it as the quiet guardian he was: the protector of Riverdale, the harborer of lost souls and safe haven for troubled teens. The patron saint of 99 cent french fries and 50 cent coffee (with free refills) in the age of expensive health food and Starbucks. He knew it was mostly ridiculous, but still, Pop’s meant more to him than he could ever describe, and there was something to be said for cheap food and a warm place to sit down. 

...

While working the drive-in, he barely made enough to get by. Even saying that he was "getting by" would be pushing it. He'd learned the art of eating cheap a long time ago, but that didn't make it any easier to stomach the same refried beans night after night.

Humor was a hell of a coping mechanism. It was a little funny, in a dry sort of way, that he was living most teenagers' dream: getting to do whatever he wanted and never having to listen to his parents. 

He thought about telling it to someone until he realized he didn’t have anyone left to tell. 

The wall between him and the rest of the town seemed more solid now that he lacked the foundation of the American family’s dream, a home, but he’d always felt disconnected. He figured he’d been destined to end up like this. Even back when he was a (relatively) normal kid living in a normal house on a normal street, he knew he didn’t belong. The other kids at school made sure he knew that. He’d learned early on how to be a recluse, how to watch from the sidelines without trying to participate. It was the role everyone else wanted him to play, so he gave up trying to fight it. He was never going to be anything more than the loner, the freak, the butt of serial killer jokes. 

Once he got used to it, it was easy to disappear. 

He went days without talking to anyone. Sometimes, he wrote down the stuff he wanted to say if he’d had anyone to talk to. Most of the time, he knew his ideas weren’t worth writing down. Still, he kept journaling in his shitty, beat-up spiral notebook, and kept typing out unnamed Word documents that he saved in the same folder on his computer, never to be looked at again. Maybe he'd use them in his novel someday. Maybe someone would come across his hard drive in twenty years and read all of it and wonder who the hell he was. 

…

When the drive-in closed, he lost the last place that felt like his own. It hadn’t been perfect, but he was glad to have a place other than the trailer. He would’ve taken the drive-in over living with his dad any day -- the cot was a shitty excuse for a bed and the room was always freezing, but it was _his_ , and the door locked, and that was enough. No matter how many times he woke up to the Serpents making noise outside, he’d rather be there than in the trailer, surrounded by the fallout, feeling the walls growing tighter and tighter, threatening to suffocate him if he didn't get the hell out. 

It hadn’t been hard to find somewhere to crash in Riverdale High; the building was old and huge and there were forgotten rooms on every floor. He’d come across the abandoned maintenance closet one day when he’d snuck in to use the showers before school. When he finally left the drive-in, he picked the closet’s lock, set his backpack down on the floor, and that was that.

Now, he didn’t have a single place where he actually belonged. He didn’t even have anywhere he was _supposed_ to be. When he wasn’t in class, he was loitering, or trespassing, or just being a nuisance wherever he went. Not to mention the fact that his income was seriously dwindling after he’d gotten his last paycheck from the drive-in. He didn’t know how much longer he could survive on the money he had left, and he didn’t like thinking about what his options would be once he ran out.

There was one upside to school starting, though: he and Archie were talking again. It wasn’t exactly under ideal conditions; he couldn’t pretend to understand the fucked-up web that Archie was caught in with Grundy, and he knew he worried too much sometimes. He couldn’t help it. But even if their conversations were tense and usually ended with Archie pushing him away, Jughead was relieved to get the chance to care about him again. He was afraid Archie would shut him out if he got too involved, so he settled for reassuring him, again and again, that he was there for him and willing to listen, and he desperately hoped that would be enough. 

Now that he knew what Archie was going through, he regretted not talking to him after the failed road trip. He knew it wasn’t really his fault -- wasn’t Archie’s fault, either -- that they’d grown apart over the summer, but he felt awful for being absent when Archie might have needed him most. He tried to make up for lost time in their conversations now. Sometimes he could still get Archie to laugh, but everything about him felt a little hollow. Even when he didn’t know what to say, he stayed with Archie. Even if it meant sitting in silence for hours on end, Jughead felt safe when they were together, and he got the sense that it made Archie feel a little safer, too. No matter how much Archie swore he could handle things, Jughead could tell he’d missed having him there to care about him and tell him when he was doing something stupid (or join in if it was stupid enough).

…

Life pushed them together again when Archie found out he was homeless. Jughead hadn’t wanted him to find out that way, he hadn’t meant for anyone to find out at all. No matter how much he swore he had things under control, Archie saw through his bullshit. He tried desperately to get Archie to just _leave it alone_ and let him figure it out, but those efforts were useless. Archie was Fred’s son, after all. He wouldn’t leave someone alone when they were struggling; he was probably physically incapable of backing down or giving up on anyone. Curse the Andrews family and their stubborn generosity. 

Things had been easier when Jughead was invisible. He didn’t have to tiptoe the line between being vulnerable and being pitied. He didn’t have to worry about what lie he’d tell next time someone asked where he was sleeping. And most of all, he didn’t have to feel guilty for taking up space in the homes and lives of people who deserved so much better than him.

 _“Come live with me,”_ Archie had said. It wasn’t a question. As much as Jughead tried to argue with him, as guilty as he felt for making them take care of him _again_ , the thought of a safe place to sleep and food on the table was incredibly tempting. It quieted the fear and anxiety that he hadn’t even realized he was feeling. It was wearing away at him to never be able to let his guard down, and he hadn’t realized how much he missed having somewhere that felt safe.

 _“Come live with me,”_ Archie had said, and wrapped him up in a bear hug, tight enough to make Jughead worry about breaking a rib or popping a lung.

“Dude! You’re all sweaty, ew,” Jughead whined, pretending to squirm away. He gave in after a few seconds, wrapped his arms around Archie’s neck, and let himself relax. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had actually touched him. Leave it to Archie to swoop in and remind him that he was still a person, still flesh and bone like everyone else even when he’d been feeling like a ghost. For that second, he didn’t worry about whether the Andrews were sick of worrying about him, or where his dad was, or what he was going to do with himself. He buried his face in Archie’s shoulder and let himself feel real.

The school bell rang and they both startled and pulled away. Jughead wasn’t actually sure how long they’d been standing there. Archie looked at him closely.

“Are you crying?” he asked, sounding so damn kind and worried and genuine.

“No,” Jughead said hoarsely, clearing his throat as if that would make it less obvious. “I’m...sweating. From my eyes.”

Archie skipped football practice that day to help Jughead gather his stuff -- not that there was that much of it, he could’ve carried it all in his backpack, but Archie had insisted on helping. Fred showed up to pick them up from school, because of _course_ he did, and when he pulled up and hopped out of the truck, Jughead just looked at him, not sure what to say. 

“Hi, Mr. Andrews.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Fred patted him on the back, taking the bundle of stuff Archie was carrying and carefully setting it down in a space he’d cleared out in the back of the truck. “Anything else you need to get?”

“Nope, this is it.” Jughead was suddenly very aware of just how little he owned.

“All right. You guys hungry?” Fred asked, not even waiting for an answer before he turned out of the parking lot and headed towards Pop’s.

That night, they all sat around the table and played board games and talked and laughed like a real family. Things were starting to feel normal again so quickly that he didn’t even realize it was happening. One moment he was dropping his stuff off in Archie’s room, the next he was joining in on their banter, cracking jokes and cheering obnoxiously when he won a game like always. He fit back into his place in their lives like he’d never left, like this summer had never happened.

…

One night, he mentioned that he’d been trying to write a novel, and of course, Archie and Fred both insisted on hearing it. He gave in and read them a few paragraphs off the first page, just the ones he was most proud of. In the middle of a sentence, he looked up and met Archie’s eyes, and felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Archie was watching him, looking at him like he was something precious. For a second, Jughead saw the same look in Archie’s eyes that he got when he was talking to Veronica or Valerie, that same thousand-watt smile and softness in his gaze. 

He cleared his throat and finished the last paragraph, trying not to stumble over his words. 

“Wow,” Fred said, shaking his head slowly. “You could be an author, kid.”

“Thanks, Mr. Andrews,” Jughead said sheepishly. “Maybe. I dunno. I’ve heard it’s pretty hard to get published, and I don’t know if anyone would want to read about Riverdale anyways.” He trailed off, self-conscious but trying not to sound ungrateful.

“I bet you could do it, Jug. Hell, you’re the best writer I know.”

“Same here,” Archie added. 

Jughead looked down at the pages he was holding, trying to blink away the tears that had suddenly welled up. For a moment, he thought about all the things he’d been writing down, everything he’d been waiting to say, and he wondered if maybe everything had been worth saving after all.

After that night, he got into the habit of reading to Archie every time he finished writing a new page or a particularly good line. Maybe one day he’d read Archie the parts that were about him, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the folder inside several other folders bit was inspired by a weird thing i noticed in ep 1: when jughead's typing on his computer, it shows his computer screen for a second, and first of all this boy needs to organize his desktop its a MESS. second of all he has three separate folders titled "images", "pictures", and "photos", which is...weird, so i'm headcanon-ing that those are his top secret writing folders (aka poetry and sappy stuff about archie).  
> when talking about all the things jughead wrote down that he thought weren't worth keeping but saved anyways, i wanted to sort of reference the line in ep7 where he says (about the drive-in) "maybe they'll save it. all the pieces. store it in the town hall attic and rebuild it in a hundred years, wonder who the hell we were." that's probably my favorite line in the entire show, because it brings up a part of jughead's character that we don't really get to see anywhere else -- the part of him that is (stubbornly) hopeful that the things he loves will survive, despite all the change and chaos he's been through.  
> also i think the sweating from my eyes part is an accidental phineas and ferb reference
> 
> we got one more chapter and before it's SADNESS TIME, BABY!


	5. if i make it through tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning for descriptions of physical abuse and (mild) injuries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm taking a lot of creative liberties here (and in every other chapter) when it comes to the plot of s2 because the riverdale plot is ridiculous and vague, so for reference, this takes place approximately during the beginning of s2 but who's keeping track  
> title is from you or your memory by the mountain goats.

The last time Fred rescued him from his own life, Jughead was sixteen and he couldn’t wait to escape. He’d started using music as a crutch, telling himself _I’m gonna make it through this year if it kills me_. He'd gone from desperately wanting a place to belong to being pulled in more directions than he can count. Riverdale High and his friends, for one, Southside High and the Serpents, for another, torn between staying with Archie and moving back in like his dad had asked. Not to mention the novel he didn't have time to work on anymore. He couldn't seem to make enough time for anyone or anything. He didn't know who he should stay loyal to, or who he could trust to stick around. More than that, he wished he didn't have to choose. 

...

Although it had been nearly a year since Jason's murder, everyone was still paranoid. Sure, they'd found his killer, and Clifford was dead, but they all seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop. Neighbors didn’t trust each other anymore, kids stopped walking to school alone, and the town felt like that one episode of The Twilight Zone. No one felt safe. 

Then the Black Hood had started terrorizing the town, and he proved everyone right: none of them were safe. 

Of course, Jughead had already known that. He'd lived his entire life with fear gnawing at the corners of his thoughts. Even on the good days, even when his parents were still together, even when his dad still had a job, even when Fred and Archie protected him and put a roof over his head, he knew he wasn’t allowed to be a part of their world forever. 

Jason Blossom’s death had shaken him, and the entire town, but by now most of the town had moved on, having gotten used to a new baseline of paranoia, and Jughead’s life had pretty much returned to the status quo. 

He and Archie were on solid ground again, and that was a good thing. Maybe the best thing he had going for himself. After Jughead had moved in with the Andrews, the two of them had made up as promised: Archie righted his wrongs over many burgers and many days (and many nights when they’d stay up talking for hours, and Jughead would tell him _it’s okay, I understand, I forgive you, it wasn’t your fault_ , and Archie would eventually start to believe him). 

They fit back into each other’s lives naturally: they’d been best friends for years, after all, and one summer couldn’t wipe that out. Jughead felt lucky, even a little greedy, for how much time he got to spend with Archie. They walked to school together, and Jughead would wait on the bleachers for football practice to end so they could walk home together, too, and they would spend the rest of the night together, doing their homework and helping Fred with dinner and staying up too late playing video games. 

During the summer, after they’d stopped talking, Jughead had forbidden himself from thinking about Archie, so he never really let himself realize just how much he’d missed being together. Now that they were back to normal (or as normal as things could be), being with Archie was easy. Comfortable. They could talk for hours, but sometimes, they just sat together on Archie’s bed, or Jughead would work on his novel and listen while Archie practiced guitar. In a way, he liked those times the best: the times when they were both just content to do their own thing in each other’s presence. 

After a few weeks of late-night conversations, they’d both agreed that it was pointless for Jughead to keep sleeping on the air mattress. It was always deflating, and Jughead kept waking up with a crick in his neck or a pulled muscle from falling halfway off it in the middle of the night, and besides, it was a pain in the ass having to whisper at each other from several feet away. It was only practical for Jughead to start sleeping in Archie’s bed. They still blew up the air mattress at night, not because they were keeping anything from Fred, they just didn’t want him to start asking questions that neither of them would know how to answer. 

And so, every night, they brushed their teeth together in the Andrews’ tiny bathroom before saying goodnight to Fred. Once they heard him go back downstairs, Jughead would carefully crawl into Archie’s bed, and they’d talk for a few hours, or however long it took for Archie to fall asleep in the middle of a sentence. 

Sometimes, Jughead would look at him while he slept, watching how his features softened, how peaceful he was without the pinched look of stress and worry that wore on him during the day. Or he’d sit up to look out the window after all the houses had turned their lights off, leaving the street dark except for a few streetlights and leftover strands of Christmas lights dotting the trees. He’d sit there for a while, gazing out at the other houses in the neighborhood and feeling like he was seeing a different side of the town: one that was quiet, and dark, and at peace. With the walls of the Andrews’ house keeping him safe, and Archie breathing softly next to him, he wondered what he’d done right to deserve this. He still couldn’t believe he was allowed to have any of it.

Gradually, things with Archie had started to change. Some mornings, Jughead would wake up with Archie curled up next to him, one of his arms draped over Jughead’s chest, and he’d have to take deep breaths to keep his heart from beating fast enough to wake Archie up. Sometimes, Archie pulled him closer in his sleep and Jughead let himself be held, let Archie’s space-heater-like warmth ward off the cold under his skin, willing himself to un-notice how the muscles in Archie’s arms and chest rippled when he held on tighter. Once, Archie had woken up while they were like that, and Jughead immediately pretended to be asleep, worried Archie would think it was weird that he hadn’t thrown his arm off. He felt Archie release his hold, just a little, just enough that he could breathe a little better, and they both dozed off again.

After that, they both knew, but they didn’t say anything about it. They were afraid of putting it in words, like if they said anything, it would ruin whatever fragile new thing they were building. But even wordless and unsure, he was with Archie, so it was easy. It was safe. And one night, when Archie was telling him about a new term he’d learned online -- _intrusive thoughts_ \-- Jughead reached under the covers to lace their fingers together, and Archie just squeezed his hand and kept talking.

On an uncharacteristically cold fall night, they’d driven home together from Pop’s after one of Archie’s football games, like so many other nights. When they got home, Archie parked underneath one of the streetlamps just so, and a sliver of light fell across his face, making his eyes glow amber. They both sat there for a second longer than usual, breathless and looking at each other, not saying anything. With the blood rushing in his ears, Jughead watched the sliver of light travel up Archie’s face and disappear as he leaned over the gear shift, leaving them in darkness, and he closed the distance between them, thinking _finally_ . At first, they’d both leaned in and misjudged the landing -- Archie mostly missed his mouth and planted his lips under his nose, but it felt better that way. It felt so _like them_ even when everything else didn’t. They both cracked up, laughing out the nervous energy they’d both built up, and Jughead held onto the lapel of Archie’s varsity jacket like he was afraid he’d run away. 

When they could both finally breathe again, Archie looked at him so seriously it was almost funny, and cupped his face in his big, warm hands -- gently, like he was holding a baby bird -- and kissed him right on the mouth. The way their lips fit together felt right, and Jughead thought, briefly, that he’d always known it would. 

They knew they had to talk about it at some point, even if it was awkward. The conversation started with Archie saying “So.” very matter-of-factly, as if Jughead had just asked where babies came from. Neither of them really knew how to talk about relationships; they hadn’t exactly had perfect role models for them, but Jughead reminded himself this was _Archie_ . They knew each other better than anyone else in the world, and they’d made it through more confusing things than this before. Hell, they’d solved a _murder_. They could figure out how to define their relationship.

Ultimately, they decided they were both _very_ okay with making their relationship official. Jughead got a thrill every time he thought of himself as Archie’s boyfriend or vice versa, even if they’d agreed to hold off on telling everyone. 

He got the sense that Veronica and Betty could tell, though. Given that Veronica was spending the night at Betty’s nearly every day -- they walked to school together almost as often as he and Archie did -- and they were both showing up to school in turtlenecks a little too often to pass it off as a fashion statement, he figured he could trust them to keep a secret.

...

By the end of winter, Jughead was back in the trailer. After a few tenuously stable weeks where his dad still tried to pretend he was doing okay and holding down a job, FP had eventually given up the ghost when it came to sobriety. The gravity of their situation had proven to be too much for him to handle; their reality was too depressing for him to deal with. So he went back to his old ways, and settled into the comforting fog of forgetting everything. Jughead knew he was drinking again, not because FP would actually _tell_ him, but because he was all too familiar with the way the sour smell of beer hung around the trailer. Some nights, when Jughead’s thoughts were especially cloudy and violent, he envied his dad. He thought about letting himself forget, too: forgetting how broken their family was without Gladys and Jellybean, how plagued Riverdale was with paranoia, how the two of them were living in the Salem witch trials and they could both hear the town placing bets on whether they would float or sink. It was like nothing had ever happened: no jail, no murder charges, no Jason Blossom, just Jughead going to bed, not knowing where his dad was, and leaving for school the next morning with his dad asleep or unconscious on the couch.

Even though they didn’t get to spend every waking moment together, Jughead felt some part of himself soothed by the knowledge that Archie was there for him. Even though he felt like he was supposed to be a good son, which meant staying in the trailer and dealing with his dad, he knew the Andrews’ house was within walking distance if he ever needed a safe haven. 

As his dad spent more and more time suspended in a haze of drunken confusion, his rages got worse, and Jughead was the only one left to deal with them. He tried to avoid FP as much as possible, and at first, it worked. When he got home, he went straight to his room and shut the door behind himself, turning the lock as quietly as possible. He rarely left the room, and if he did, it was only for a minute or two, enough time to grab something from the kitchen or duck into the bathroom before disappearing again. He was grateful that he was a heavy sleeper, so he didn’t wake up when FP came home before dawn, stumbling around and knocking things over in the kitchen before collapsing onto the couch. On the rare occasions that FP actually made it to his bed before passing out, the physical evidence was the only clue that he had come home that night. Jughead would step carefully over the debris littering the kitchen floor, avoiding broken bottles and takeout containers on his way out the door before school.

He developed a sort of sixth sense for the bad days. The time of day, the air pressure, even the way FP opened the door could warn him about whether he’d have to face an impending outburst. He was always walking on eggshells around his dad, could never let his guard down, monitored his tone and chose his words carefully so he didn’t piss him off. Jughead knew, at some level, that none of it was about him, that some days it didn’t matter what he said or whether his dad even saw him at all. Sometimes, the sheer fact that he was _there_ , that he existed, was enough to send FP barreling down the hallway, shouting and swearing, to use him as a punching bag until he was content or just plain exhausted enough to walk back into the living room and leave him alone. 

He didn’t tell Archie about those days. He barely wanted to think about it in the first place. It felt horrible to keep anything from Archie, but he knew he’d be worried sick, and there wasn’t anything Jughead could say to make it better. He could already see the look on his face, the Andrews family’s signature stubborn determination, but he knew Archie couldn’t fix this no matter how hard he tried. But he’d still try, because that’s just how he was. 

Jughead kept himself from saying anything about it because he wouldn’t know how to tell Archie without hurting him, because saying _it’s okay_ would be a lie. 

He didn’t have a choice for very long. He’d been lying to himself, saying it would stop eventually, that it was a one, or two, or three, or four-time thing. But he’d become his dad’s punching bag, and it was only getting worse. It was a matter of time before he ended up with more than bruises.

He barely made it out one night. FP had shoved him up against the wall, shaking him and shouting something about Jughead thinking he was _too good for him, too good for this place, couldn’t even stand to be in the same room as him, didn’t he know how much FP had sacrificed for him_ , and FP was too out of it to realize that he was cutting off his windpipe. Jughead tried to tell him to stop, that he couldn’t breathe, but he couldn’t get enough air to make a noise. For a split second, he was sure he was going to suffocate. Then, out of nowhere, he felt a surge of adrenaline, and he suddenly had a stronger will to live than ever before in his life, his entire body screaming _not fucking yet_. With a last-ditch burst of energy, he shoved FP enough to throw off his balance, sending him stumbling backwards, and he darted out the door before FP could stop him.

His mind went blank. He didn’t even realize he was running until he was halfway to Archie’s. There was no point in coming up with an excuse; there was no way he could get out of this one. He could feel his eye swelling up, the back of his head throbbing where he’d hit the wall hard, and he was going to wake up with bruises. He shoved down the fear and shame he felt at the thought of Fred and Archie finding out, because he needed help, and he didn’t have anywhere else to go. 

Archie answered the door and took one look at him before throwing open the door and helping Jughead into the hallway, shouting “Dad!” in a scared, desperate voice Jughead never wanted to hear again in his life. The two of them sat him down on the couch, and he tried to catch his breath, unsettled by the way he was wheezing but too exhausted to care much about any of it. Archie sat next to him, close enough that Jughead could feel the warmth radiating off of him. Somehow, he seemed to understand that Jughead didn’t want to be touched then, and Jughead felt a little safer just being in his presence.

Fred didn’t say anything, and he didn’t ask Jughead to explain. Jughead assured him that he didn’t need to go to the hospital and that he wasn’t bleeding, and Fred brought out a couple bags of frozen veggies, the same kind he and Archie had used as ice packs when they were kids and one of them fell off Archie’s bike or got scraped up climbing over the fence. Fred handed them to him and returned a few seconds later later with a bottle of Advil and a glass of water. 

“Take one if you need to. Or two if it’s really hurting. I’ll let you hang onto these, I hate to tell ya it’ll probably feel worse in the morning.” Fred met Jughead’s eyes, looking pained, but didn’t look away. “You’ve got a nasty scrape on your arm there, might wanna clean it up so it doesn’t get infected.”

Jughead looked down and realized he must have hit a nail or a loose board in the wall; there was a raised red line running the length of his arm. It wasn’t bleeding, but it was close, the skin broken and stinging. He didn’t know anything about first aid, so he let Fred disinfect his arm and bandage it up, even if the bandage seems like overkill. Fred moved quickly, diligently, like he knew what he was doing, and Jughead wondered if he’d done this before.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened. You don’t have to talk about it unless you’re ready. Just tell me if you need anything,” Fred sounded calm, but Jughead could hear the gravity in his voice. He’d heard it before, when Fred had picked him up after his interrogation and insisted that Jughead was innocent with an edge in his voice that threatened Sheriff Keller, hell, the entire police force of Riverdale, if they ever tried to come near his family again.

Jughead climbed into Archie’s bed without bothering to set up the air mattress, and Fred didn't mention it, just said goodnight and told them they could stay home from school tomorrow if they wanted to. 

“Thanks, dad,” Archie said, sounding sleepy.

“Thanks, Fred,” Jughead added.

That time, it was Jughead who wrapped his arms around Archie and buried his face in his chest. Archie held on, careful not to touch his neck or his bandaged arm, and rubbed circles on his back until Jughead fell asleep, surrounded by the warmth and safety he’d missed for so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just like the show writers, ive managed to talk about high school characters extensively without ever having them attend class. riverdale true end: everyone gets held back a grade so the show can get renewed for more seasons (before pulling a glee move and sending them all off to college in the same city)  
> the twilight zone episode jughead references at the beginning is The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street, one of my personal favs.  
> also, the ending scene between fp and jughead is pretty short -- i didn't want to write a super drawn-out, violent scene partially because i've kind of already posted a fic like that, and mostly because that shit hurted and i didn't think it'd be enjoyable to write or read it.  
> thanks so much for reading, especially if you're reading this before it's finished. i appreciate the support i've gotten on this fic so much; it's my longest one yet and my most ambitious (in terms of emotional stuff, telling a story over several years, and dealing with serious topics).  
> my semester starts again within the next week, so i can't promise that the next chapter will be up by next monday, but i'll finish it ASAP.  
> buckle your seatbelts, it's about to get real sad!!!


	6. remember what we had here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> regrets, realizations, reconnections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see the end of the work for a LOT of notes, whoops!  
> i borrowed the bit about fred seeing a beautiful girl in trouble on the side of the road from the fic "wherever you go i'll be with you" by jugheadjones. in many ways, that fic is what inspired/challenged me to develop fp's character + his relationship with fred more than i have in other fics. hopefully some of that depth came through in this one.  
> chapter title is from "magpie" by the mountain goats.

That morning, when he, Archie, Betty, and Veronica were building the float, Cheryl had said that the Fourth of July was a day of tragedy for Riverdale.

Now, that morning, the parade, all of it felt far away. Even Jason’s death and that original fateful Fourth of July seemed impossibly long ago. Their lives had been split into a before and an after: _before_ , their story had been about a mystery, a small town that seemed safe and innocent on the surface but held dark secrets. _After_ , Fred Andrews was dead, and any innocence left in Riverdale had died, too.

...

Jughead didn’t know what to do with himself. He couldn’t stand being by himself in that big, empty house on Elm Street. Even when they’d first moved in, it’d felt wrong to be living in Betty’s old house. The Coopers had lived there forever, and their house was practically a landmark of Riverdale. As Jughead had watched them pack their things into boxes, he’d realized that even the Cooper family -- once a pillar of Riverdale, a beacon of small-town goodness -- had suffered the same fate as the town itself; their family, too, was now fractured and broken beyond repair.

Jughead had hoped, naively, that having his mom and JB back would mean that the Joneses could be a family again. The right kind of family. The kind that lived in a real house on a real street, with neighbors and streetlights and grassy backyards. But despite his dad’s new job, and everything that their new life seemed to promise, none of it had been enough to keep their family together. Now that his mom and JB were gone, now that it was just him and his dad again, the house was too big, too cold. An empty shell of a home, housing what used to be a family. He was the only one left.

After the Fourth of July, that awful afternoon, FP had disappeared. Jughead hadn’t tried to find him; he couldn’t even really blame him for leaving. His dad had _seen_ it, he’d been the one who had to tell Archie and Mary about the _incident_ , still trying to do his job, trying to help like he hadn’t lost everything, too. They’d all sat around the Andrews’ dining room table and tried to talk about the _proceedings_ , the legal process, as if any of it felt real. They’d all been holding their breath, the room like the edge of a knife’s blade, and when FP said _I’m sorry, Mary_ , that was what broke them. Jughead had never seen adults cry like that before. There was something so awful, so wrong about it, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except stare blankly at the wall and let himself be swallowed by nothingness. Archie had been equally catatonic, but Jughead had stayed with him until he asked to be left alone, and when he’d gotten home, FP was gone.

...

Even though being left alone made Fred’s loss hurt even worse, Jughead knew, somewhere inside him, that FP was doing his best. Or, at least, he was dealing with all of this the only way he knew how. 

FP had lost so much in Fred, maybe more than any of them. Jughead knew he probably wouldn’t ever get to hear the whole story. FP had always loved to tell stories about Fred, especially tales from their high school days, but he was always careful to steer the conversation away from any mention of his relationship with Fred. Whether FP was trying to avoid reopening old wounds or whether he was just a private person, Jughead wasn’t sure. After all, FP had never liked to talk about himself. All Jughead knew about his dad’s childhood was what he’d been able to piece together from the hand-me-downs left behind by his grandfather: the broken-in couch, the old fist-sized dents in the wood and tears in the fabric, and the steadiness in Fred's hands, implying years of practice, as he'd tended to Jughead's wounds a year ago. 

In that moment, even though Jughead was years away from being able to forgive his dad, he thought maybe he could understand. 

Jughead regretted not asking Fred about his dad. Fred had always been more open about those things, and his candor was the only reason Jughead knew Fred and FP had ever been anything more than friends. He’d always been so afraid to pry, afraid to dredge up old hurt. Now he’d never get the chance.

Grief sliced through him like a hot knife. 

He remembered that old saying: "Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it." Archie had Fred’s kind heart, and he was just as selfless. Jughead knew, as sure as he knew his own name, that if Fred had asked Archie to drive up to Cherry Creek for him that day, if Archie had been the one to spot a beautiful girl in trouble on the side of the road, that he would’ve pulled over to help without a second thought. Something inside him seized, then, at the realization that such a tiny, arbitrary detail was the only reason Archie was still alive. 

Jughead wondered, strangely, if there was such a thing as fate. If some kind of cosmic sin, committed centuries before any of them were born, had cursed the Andrews and the Joneses to relive the same story over and over again: the Andrews boys inheriting so much selflessness and kindness, and the Jones boys loving them, completely and helplessly, and never being able to repay them. Never saving them the one time it really mattered.

...

He’d spent the last several nights wandering aimlessly around town, just himself and the humid, choking summer air. He’d walk, listening to the sounds around him at first, but eventually the crickets and the wind in the trees would fade away as he lost himself in his thoughts. Random memories of moments he’d spent with Fred and Archie came flooding back without any sense of reason or order. Each one hurt more than the last. Every time Fred had saved him stood out in his mind, a constellation of rare moments where he’d felt completely loved, completely safe, during the chaos that had characterized his childhood.

He was torn between feeling selfish -- for being so wrecked by Fred’s death when he wasn’t the one who’d actually lost a parent -- and feeling like he wasn’t sad enough, wasn’t saying the right things or grieving the right way. Throughout everything, even in the worst moments -- _especially_ in the worst moments -- he was painfully aware of how much Archie must be hurting, how much worse he had it. Measuring Archie’s grief against his own wasn’t fair, not to him or Archie, but nothing was. 

He couldn’t feel sad. He didn’t know how to feel anything.

Wherever he started his walk, whichever direction he took off in, without fail, he always ended up outside the Andrews' house. Even now, even after everything, the house still looked like home, the one safe place left in the world, its windows emitting a gentle yellow glow against the black sky. 

...

He’s acting on instinct, or muscle memory, and walks up to the door without calling first, like he used to when he as a kid. As soon as he’s on the porch, he remembers Fred isn’t there to let him in, and he feels a stab of loss all over again. He rings the doorbell anyways. He doesn’t really expect anyone to let him in, assuming Archie still doesn’t feel up to leaving his room, but to his surprise, Mary comes down the hallway, looking weary. Maybe she’s expecting yet another well-meaning neighbor bringing a casserole and their sympathy. As soon as she sees Jughead standing on the porch, she opens the door and lets him in without hesitating. Just like Fred always did. 

“Hey, Jughead.” She sounds friendly, like always, but tired. Even though she and Fred had separated years ago, Jughead can see so much of them in each other. The same creases at the corners of their eyes, and the same worn-down, quiet kindness. He can tell she’s been crying.

“Hi, Ms. Andrews.” For a second, he almost calls her _Archie’s mom_ , like he’s seven years old and sleeping over at Archie’s again. 

He hasn’t actually spoken to Mary since the afternoon when they’d found out about Fred, and he’s not sure what to say. They both stand there for a second, not saying anything. Jughead realizes that it should probably feel awkward, but for some reason, it doesn’t. 

“I’m sorry for just...showing up like this. Without calling first, I mean.”

“Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome here. Hell, you’ve spent more time in this house than I have these past few years. You’re part of the family.”

She extends her arms, just a little, and even though he isn’t a hugger, Jughead holds on for dear life. The Andrews always hugged the same way they did everything else: fiercely, lovingly, warmly, and he feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. He squeezes them shut, trying not to cry on her shirt. 

After a few seconds, Mary lets go and pats him gently on the arm. She’s looking at him with so much love and kindness that it almost hurts to make eye contact. He still doesn’t understand how any of them do it: how they care about people so _much_ , how they never run out of love, even for people who they haven’t seen in years.

Jughead turns slightly, about to put his backpack down and go upstairs. 

“Wait a sec,” Mary says, and she walks back down the hallway to grab something from another room. When she comes back, she hands him a tiny picture frame that holds an old, fuzzy Polaroid. 

It’s a photo of Fred and FP, one he’s never seen before. They can’t be much older than seventeen. They’re leaning against Fred’s orange VW bus, arms around each other, both squinting in the sun and smiling so wide it looks like it hurts.

“I was cleaning up Fred’s room a little, and he had a couple of photos on his bedside table. He would’ve wanted you to have this one.”

Jughead stares at it, trying to picture the day it was taken, and struggling to imagine a time when they had both looked so happy. He feels hot tears welling up in his eyes, and this time, he lets them fall, careful not to get the photo wet. He clears his throat, not completely sure if he can trust his voice to not crack.

“Thank you. This means a lot.” 

“You know Fred always saw you as a second son. Well,” she says, cracking a smile, “maybe a son-in-law.”

Jughead hesitates for a second, knowing he should say something but not sure how to wrap up so many years, so much time and love and care, into one sentence. 

He settles for just saying, “I know.” 

He can’t take his eyes off the photo. He can almost feel the sun warming him from where it glints off the bus’s side-view mirror, turning the corners of the photo white. 

“They look so -- so happy.”

Mercifully, Mary doesn’t expect him to keep up the conversation much longer. She knows he’s always been quiet, even in the best of times, and Jughead suspects neither of them are really feeling up to a long, emotional heart-to-heart right now.

“Archie’s up in his room,” she offers, and Jughead starts up the stairs. He pauses on the third step.

“Thank you,” he says, one more time, and Mary just smiles in the wise, reassuring way of hers.

Up in Archie’s room, Jughead talks about whatever random small talk he comes up with, filling the silence so Archie doesn’t feel pressured to talk about anything, but so he doesn’t feel alone, either. For the first time in several days, Archie chimes in, and Jughead is relieved. The fact that he’s ready to talk is a good sign. They chat about nothing, just random movies and music, for a while, until Archie abruptly changes the topic.

“My mom’s gonna leave Riverdale again.”

Jughead just listens. 

“I know she cares more about me being safe and happy and stuff than she does about being in Chicago, but I can tell she doesn’t want to stay here. It’s just...not her home anymore. I can’t ask her to give up everything she has in Chicago to be here with me. I can’t ask her to give up her whole _life_ \--” Archie’s voice cracks. “--for me. Not after my dad did.” 

Archie pauses for a second, the air between them heavy and suffocating. He’s staring at the floor, not really looking at anything. Tears roll down his face, leaving black spots on the dark fabric of his shirt, and he doesn’t try to wipe them away. Jughead already knows what Archie’s going to say; he’s been asking himself the same inevitable question ever since Mary had returned to Riverdale.

“What am I gonna do when she leaves, Jug?” 

They’re both quiet. Jughead tries desperately to come up with something to say, but he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing, terrified of making Archie feel more alone.

When they were five, Archie’s great-grandma had died, and Fred had told them, in his kind, gentle way, that every grown-up was going to die one day. Jughead has always thought of himself as a logical person, but he realizes he’d never really believed that. Even if he knew everyone was going to die someday, Fred wasn’t supposed to. He can’t imagine ever leaving Archie, but he’s suddenly struck by the fact that no matter how much he loves him, he can't promise that he'll never leave. Everything _,_ even the two of them, will have to end someday. 

He takes Archie’s hand and intertwines their fingers together. Archie grips his hand so hard that Jughead’s fingers start to go numb, but he squeezes back with all his strength anyways, determined to give Archie something to hold onto.

“You’ll have me.” 

It's not enough, Jughead knows that, but it's the best he can offer.

He stays, and Archie lets him sit down next to him on the bed, and they spend the rest of the night trading memories about Fred: the man who'd taught them both how to pitch a curveball, how to drive a stick shift, how to love others unconditionally, and how to be kind to the world without ever asking anything in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so, so much for reading this! i appreciate you all so much. this has been my most ambitious fic, and it's been a wonderful experience.  
> leave a comment if you feel like it, i'd love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> this fic was my first attempt to write fp less two-dimensionally than i usually do. i think there's a lot to be said about the cycle of abuse, starting with fp jones the first, that the show got SO close to talking about, but they ultimately just missed the mark. also, this fic is (mostly) from jughead's perspective, and imo it would be unrealistic to write jughead as being well-versed enough in communication and healthy family relationships to forgive his dad at this point. at the same time, i think fp's character is a lot more complex than how ive written him in the past, and his story opens the gates to a lot of other important stories that could be told about the characters.
> 
> lastly, if you have any fic ideas, feel free to shoot me a message on tumblr @highendgraveyard! no promises that i'll be able to write them, but i'd love to keep writing during the semester when i have time.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! comments and kudos are much appreciated if you enjoyed this chapter!   
> this is my second ever multichaptered fic, and my comfort zone is approximately 1k words, so i'm trying to break out of it with this one.


End file.
